


Choosing Life

by LRCee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LRCee/pseuds/LRCee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Elia, Ashara and Arthur thought: a Dornish retelling of the events leading up to and including Robert's Rebellion. <br/>With alternate endings: one canon, and one happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After the Sun's Princess dimmed, after the Sword of the Morning rusted, fell, after his sister jumped, numb, the beauty of Dorne began to disintegrate into dust. Elia, the would-be queen, Arthur, the strength of Westeros, Ashara, the beauty of the Seven Kingdoms, lost.

  
 _How?_  the women would later whisper, _Why?_ the men would rasp, but the three would be lost to the ages, swept under as kings ravaged the country and reached for that cruel, blooded iron chair. Now only the remembrance of swirling silks and silvered steel, haunting laughter, tears in the dark remained and the three dissolved into mist and memory. But before one died in a puddle of blood in a world far from hers, before one fell to a Northern sword, before one floated, plummeted, crashed into the sea, they _lived_.

 

* * *

 

Ashara first trades the cool marble of Starfall for the arching halls of Sunspear and emerald trees of the Water Gardens when she is ten, crossing Dorne for a princess.

“Arthur, please don’t leave me,” she whispers into his silvery light hair, pleading with lilac eyes, “Please don’t make me go.”

Arthur presses his hand over her dark strands and squeezes her shoulder softly. Ashara looks over his shoulder at their father, cast in shadow. Her brother leads her to her horse, touches her hand, gives her a sad smile and she is off, her horse nestled between her father’s men, separated from Arthur, not to see him for years.

When Ashara meets Elia, two weeks later, Elia smiles at her shyly before grabbing her hands and leading her to her new chambers. Elia has had the room arranged in purples, and Ashara feels a slight swell in her heart for the girl standing across from her, picking at her nails.

Time passes quickly in Sunspear, and Elia, Ashara and wild Oberyn are always together, drunk off heady spices, warm air and friendship. Mornings are spent in lessons, Elia easily acing them, Ashara trying not to be indifferent and Oberyn aiming only to subvert the maester. Afternoons are better: the three walk the Water Gardens, sticky hands linked until Oberyn raises them above their heads and the three race. Oberyn hollers riotously and chases his palms over pools of water. Elia, always a little too out of breath, chases after him, so determined to keep up. Ashara giggles, the air catching her laughter and making it echo. In the warm, humid air she spins, arms raised, dark hair flying, silks swirling.

 _What a girl, what a beauty_ the seated women murmur, tsking at Oberyn and concerned for Elia. _A beauty, true, but too wild. She’ll turn too passionate for her own good._

Nights are calm and quiet, save for chirping insects outside and Doran’s low voice and clinks on the cyvasse board. In her airy chamber, Ashara peers out the window into the dark sky, punched with stars, and gazes to the west. Miles and miles away, an impossible distance, Ashara hopes Arthur looks out his eastern window, and thinks of her.

Nightly, Elia and Ashara brush their hair together and compare the strands, thinking how alike the colors are, almost as if they are two halves of one girl.

* * *

  
Arthur comes to Sunspear when Ashara is five-and-ten, granted a rare and unexpected leave from their father. Arthur is six-and-ten and shining, a man grown, already becoming deadly with a sword. Ashara knows the whispers from Starfall, that Arthur will be the next Sword of the Morning, the next to wield Dawn, and she is impossibly proud.  
He arrives with an escort, and gets down from his horse calmly. So unlike Ashara, Arthur was always a study in calm. Ashara races towards him and into his hug and she hears his laughter, though she knows he thinks her haste inappropriate in front of Dorne’s most important family. _If only he knew_ , Ashara thinks happily,  _if_ _only he knew Oberyn’s wildness, he would think nothing of mine._

Arthur releases her, and bends his knee to the ruling Princess, thanking her for her generosity in letting him stay and her kindness to his sister. He nods to Doran, quiet and dutiful, and is released from his bows when Oberyn claps him on the back, saying how any brother of Ashara’s is a friend of his. When Arthur is presented to Elia, he takes her hands and kisses them. Ashara wants to laugh at Arthur, her older brother by only a year, acting the man until she notices Elia’s blush, high on her cheeks, and Arthur’s too-long gaze.  
That night, Elia and Ashara giggle under the bed covers, evading sleep, and Ashara cannot stand waiting any longer.

“What do you think of my brother?” It is a casual thing to say, Ashara knows, but still she grins in the darkness, awaiting Elia’s response.

“He seems different from you,” Elia offers and Ashara pokes her to continue. “I hear he’s quite skilled with a blade.”

Elia pauses until she murmurs, close to sleep, “I would like to see.”

* * *

  
Arthur is mesmerizing, quick flashes of steel and strength. Ashara stares as he and Oberyn parry in the yard, wondering if this would have been her life, had she been born a boy. Elia stands beside her, looking on at the pair. Though Oberyn is undoubtedly talented, Arthur is clearly the superior swordsman; Oberyn too restless, always verging on out of control.

For Doran’s name day, three weeks after Arthur’s arrival, the Princess of Dorne arranges a tourney. Ashara wonders why a tourney was the choice of celebration for solemn Doran, who never seemed interested in lances and the clashing of steel.  
Arthur joins the lists, as she knew he would, and Ashara watches for him and Oberyn from her seat on the dais next to Elia.  
The day is hot, and made hotter still by the stares she feels combing over her body. To her right, Ashara knows Elia is experiencing the same treatment, her rosy blushes matching the colors of her silks.

“It seems as though there is a theme among our admirers,” Ashara whispers to Elia, nodding to three old, white-bearded men staring unabashedly at them from across the stands.

“Perhaps, sweet Ashara, but there is always room for variety,” Elia responds, raising her eyebrows towards a pair of boys no older than nine, who lower their eyes and turn violent pink when Ashara looks their way.

Arthur finally comes out, pale, silvered armor embossed with the silver star and sword of their home, and trots toward the dais. He comes up to Elia and Ashara and lays his lance by Elia’s knees.

“My princess, if you would be so kind as to endow me with your favor, I would be the luckiest man here,” he says, and Elia, graceful Elia, blushes a flaming red and unwinds her ribbon from her hair, tying the red cloth around his lance. Ashara looks away, feeling as though she is intruding on something private, and thinks briefly that though they are all young, and time perhaps will change them, she has never seen two people look so right together, so true.

Arthur wins the tourney, besting men much older than he, and presents the yellow rose crown to Elia, who wears it and looks like sunshine.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur stays a week more, and Ashara notes how much happier, freer, he is at Sunspear. As they walk the Water Gardens with Elia and Oberyn, Ashara and Oberyn fall back, watching Elia and Arthur walk in front of them. Oberyn slings a lazy arm around Ashara’s waist and she laughs at his easy audacity. They are both fifteen, and itching for adulthood.

“What do you think of them?” Ashara asks him, wanting to speak to someone of these developments. After crowning Elia the Queen of Love and Beauty, Arthur has been talked about some at Sunspear, though the judgment is kind, but regretful. House Dayne is a lesser house, Ashara knows, and Arthur a second son. Arthur and Elia, they have no chance. Ashara swats the thought away. _What of convention?_ Ashara thinks. _This is Dorne, not the stuffy Crownlands or the cold North. What of it?_  

“I suppose they’ll do,” Oberyn mocks, and Ashara glares at him until he squeezes his hand on her hip, laughing, and she slaps his shoulder.

 They are in the most secluded part of the Water Gardens, and Oberyn and Ashara sit on a gilded bench, Oberyn peeling an orange and Ashara pinching him for slices.

Ahead of them, Elia breaks into a peal of laughter. Elia is the kindest person Ashara knows, though she believes Elia is hard to truly impress, no matter how much the princess denies it. Elia’s back is to them, but Ashara notices she holds Arthur’s sword. Though Ashara thinks it ridiculous, Arthur brings his sword everywhere, as if to remind all of Sunspear that he will one day wield the most famous weapon in all of Dorne.

 Oberyn raises an eye and snorts, but Ashara watches as Elia jabs the sword at the air, Arthur instructing her. Elia cuts the sword through the air a few more times, though it looks heavy, and Ashara knows it is too weighty for her friend. Elia laughs again, shaking her head and saying something to Arthur, who smiles and takes the blade from her.

 Oberyn’s face is neutral, until he murmurs, “It’s good to see someone not treat her like glass.”

 Ashara says nothing, but inwardly agrees, thinking of Elia’s wit, sharp as Arthur’s blade. Not enough people see it.

 The two sit in silence, and Oberyn grows restless, leg bouncing. “Gods above, you’re quiet, Dayne.”

 “I am a gentle lady, prince,” Ashara laughs, “and I never knew you to be so religiously inclined.”

 “I am nothing if not pious,” Oberyn says, placing a teasing hand on her knee, “dutifully studying to be a Septon.”

 “I think Doran’s heart would explode in joy if he ever heard you say that. Mayhaps you can wear a woolen robe and crystal crown to practice for your future.”

 “I’m preparing to put them on as soon as we return to Sunspear.”

 “Oberyn Martell, High Septon of the Seven Kingdoms. It does have a certain ring. Though I suppose you’ll have to give up your name. What would they call you? ‘The Wencher?’”

 “You slay me, Lady Dayne! Do you think so very little of my honor? I am prepared to worship everyday, at the various brothels throughout King’s Landing.”

 “Perhaps I’ll join you as a Septa. What a pair we would make, the lusty Septon and Septa from Dorne.”

 “Planning your futures?” Elia calls as she and Arthur walk over. “So that is where you’ve been sneaking off to nightly, to worship at the Sept! What a relief, to know all my little brother is hiding is a burning religious curiosity.”

 Arthur snorts at her comment, already familiar with young Oberyn’s inability to stay still, or stay to one woman.   

 “That, and to study sums with Doran,” Oberyn replies, before taking her arm and leading all of them back to Sunspear.

 The night before Arthur is to leave for Starfall, Elia and Ashara lay on top of the covers of the bed. The two mostly share one room, often falling asleep before making it back to their rightful chambers.  Each has found the sister they’ve always wanted in each other.

  “I’m sorry Arthur has to leave,” Elia says softly, “I know you’ll miss him.”

 “I doubt I’ll be the only one,” Ashara grins.

 Elia flushes. “He kissed me today,” she whispers so softly Ashara has difficulty hearing it. “I hope…” Elia stumbles over her words, embarrassed. “I hope that isn’t awkward for you. I know, as your brother…” she trails off and Ashara laughs lightly.

 Clutching Elia’s thin hands, Ashara whispers, “One day we really will be sisters, for true.”

 She closes her eyes then, falling asleep to the hazy dream of she and Elia and Arthur at Starfall, and she knows it will happen, she knows it to be true.

 For the next three years, ravens fly between Sunspear and Starfall, many for Ashara and multitudes for Elia, who reads them so gleefully Ashara almost wants to cry with gladness at how happy her best friend is. 

 The next time she sees Arthur it is in King’s Landing, and Ashara is eight-and-ten and so impossibly beautiful it is sometimes hard to look at her. Arthur is nine-and-ten and kneeling, accepting the white cloak of the Kingsguard, and Ashara feels her dreams slipping away, Elia rigid beside her. 


	3. Chapter 3

It is a month before Elia and Ashara and the rest of the Martells are to go to King’s Landing, Elia’s mother to see King Aerys, and Elia and Ashara to see Arthur, who has told them he has news, but will not reveal what it is.

Elia stares into the dark of her Sunspear chambers and traces the lines of her collarbones, back and forth, back and forth, the thin bones that signal frailty and worry her mother. Elia moves her hands to her face and presses the heel of her palms into her eye sockets until her eyes feel drained. When she opens them again, the room bursts back with a millisecond of light, and then reverts to its dark swamp. _You are what you make yourself. You are not weak._ Yet Elia does not know if she believes the words, when she has been told the opposite all her life.

 Next to her on the bed, Ashara is sleeping, quiet as a ghost, and Elia stretches out a hand, faintly touching Ashara’s dark strands, just to know someone is there. Her pillow is damp, and Elia knows it is from those inexplicable tears that sometimes leak from Ashara’s eyes, little droplets of water that Elia fears. _Has it been so horrible here? Am I not good enough?_  There are many people delicate Elia Martell has not been good enough for, and thinking Ashara Dayne is one of them is a deathly grasp on her heart, an icy pierce from a star covered sword.

And yet Elia knows Ashara Dayne. Knows no matter how quickly Ashara moves on from men, how bored she can grow, how she can use her beauty to rile or remedy, Ashara has a heart as large as the sun, warm in its love and fiery in its passion. Elia knows Ashara is a deep well, and Elia thinks Ashara could swim forever in all the feelings she experiences. But Elia knows Ashara sometimes equates sadnesses with weakness, and she worries that Ashara is guarding her heart too closely, when she knows all others think Ashara Dayne is the least guarded woman in Dorne.

  _You are what you make yourself_ , and sometimes Elia thinks Ashara has made herself into an image; crafting herself into a symbol of nonchalance. The striking woman whose messier emotions are not seen, but replaced with passion and sexuality, for that is power. But Elia knows one day the floodgates of all Ashara’s feelings will open, and will Ashara know what to do then?

 Elia looks around the room and sees only blackness stretching into space, and gets out of bed, away from her sad thoughts. She goes, instead, to the Sept, that quiet stone space, watched over by the seven gods she may not know well enough. Elia knows to be a proper princess her duty to the Faith must be strong, but she thinks that her link to the Seven is weak. These gods are distant to her, oftentimes, and they have never answered her wishes for better physical strength. But Elia takes comfort in the strength of her mind, and thinks maybe that was their gift to her.

 “Hello,” she whispers, and the word echoes.

 “Help me?” _Help me? help me? help me? help, help, help_ , and the entire Sept is a question.

Elia wants to pray for contentment, for things to work out, but she does not know who to pray to. The Mother in all her mercy? And though the future Elia wants is a merciful one, it is true happiness for all she desires above all else, but who is the god of joy, who to worship for bliss?  The Crone, to guide her in wisdom? The Father, for a just future? The Warrior, for a strong one? And because Elia does not know who to pray to, she turns toward the shadowy figure she always avoided as a child, the Stranger. Elia knows the Stranger represents the unclear and mysterious and the future is certainly unknown, so Elia lights a candle in front of the hooded dark statue, and asks for her life, for Ashara’s, for Arthur’s, Oberyn’s, Doran’s, her mother’s.

  _Please, please, please, give us all lives of happiness. Please, please, please, give us vibrancy, give us light. Give me the strength to not worry about my strength, give Ashara the love she gives to others, give Arthur the ability and hope he sees in me, let Oberyn be wild but safe, and let Doran have some wildness in his safety, give my mother pride for us, not disappointment that we did not fulfill our roles, give her a life free of worry. Please._

 Elia looks for the first time into the darkness under the Stranger’s hood, and feels as though this god has understood. Elia kneels and puts her head and hands on the floor, tears spotting the sandy stone.

 “Thank you,” she whispers into the cool floor, “thank you.”

 Elia stays on the floor, tears dried on her face, until a soft hand touches her shoulder, and Elia gasps and jerks, until she sees Ashara standing before her and laughs in relief.

 “You startled me!” As soon as Elia speaks the words, she sees Ashara’s eyes are wet again and she longs to hug her, to let her know that she will _always_ be with Ashara whenever she needs, but she does not want to suffocate the woman in front of her, so she waits, and instead Ashara rushes towards her, and envelopes her in a hug that smells like night and the sea.

 Ashara crushes Elia to her and Elia feels hot tears mingle in her own dark hair.

 “I…I just” Ashara breathes, and it is the first time Elia has ever seen Ashara with no guard, it is the first time Elia has ever seen Ashara vulnerable, and she is much different from the laughing woman Ashara usually presents.

 “I wish I had your goodness, Elia,” Ashara whispers, “I wish I had your courage.”

 Elia is stunned into silence, but her minds wants to shake Ashara, to not let Ashara believe she is any less than the brilliant heart she truly is.

 “I know,” Ashara’s voice is low and twisted, and syllables reverberate throughout the Sept, “I know I am often callous towards the world, but I want you to know how deeply I care for you, how much I love you. Sister. How much I love you, my sister.”

 “And I you, Ashara. And I _always_ you. Truest sister of my heart.”

 And then it is Elia who takes Ashara in her arms, and the two young women, scared of an unknowable future, hold each other on the floor in front of the gods. They rock back and forth in front of the statue of the Stranger, and both Elia Martell and Ashara Dayne, family in everything but name, think at least they are not outcasts in each other’s arms.

 Daybreak comes too soon, and Elia and Ashara return to their roles of princess and lady, and Elia ponders Ashara’s confession, why she needed to say all she did. Elia returns to her chambers alone after the two break their fast, quiet, while Oberyn drags Ashara to look at one of his horses. On the table near Ashara’s side of the bed, Elia sees an old letter from Arthur to her, that Elia treasures and had reread the day before. It was her most cherished one, the one that arrived a year before, on her eighteenth name day, where Arthur spoke of marriage, of a home for the two of them, of a love that would only grow. _Elia Dayne of Starfall_? he had asked for her to be. _Or Elia Martell_ , he had scribbled. _Whichever name you prefer. I care not for your last name, as long as you are Elia, and I am Arthur, and we are together._ Elia still smiled whenever she read the line, for how he did not wish to control her, and how deeply she wanted _Elia and Arthur,_ _together_ to be a reality. But Elia knows Ashara has read the letter, and Elia knows no matter how much Ashara wants them all to be together, she does not want Elia and Arthur to be taken from her, even if only by each other.

 For if there is one thing Elia knows above all, it is that Ashara Dayne does not want to be alone.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

It is three weeks before their expected arrival at King’s Landing, and Sunspear buzzes with guests—the stately bannermen called to accompany the Martells on their northern journey, their knights aglow with the glory of the future, and their squires running desperately after them.

 The beach near Sunspear is dark and pristine—waves lapping gently on the sand, stars prickling the sky, insects humming closer to the castle—and Ashara wonders if she is honoring its beauty or dirtying it as the Lemonwood knight presses into her, placing sloppy kisses on her throat and careless hands on her chest. _Dirtying it_ , Ashara supposes, before flipping the nameless knight onto his back, and clutching his hands above his head. Her dark hair drifts around their faces as she kisses him, keeping him still, and trails her lips down his chest. This, Ashara prefers. She does not mind teaching, but this is her domain, and here, she controls. The Lemonwood knight is gasping, and Ashara looks up at him, his silky black hair blending into the sand that looks so dark this night. On his tunic, hastily tossed away a while ago, are embroidered lemons of House Dalt, and Ashara thinks this knight almost a boy, playing at swords with his citrus fruits. The knight opens his eyes with a moan, and looks down at Ashara, thinking her a mermaid, a wild woman from the sea, meant to drive him to madness. He tells her this, and Ashara laughs.

 “Then, Ser, you should perhaps return to the castle and away from the water.”

 The knight clothes himself and reaches to her, expecting her to follow him, but Ashara instead kisses him softly on the cheek, and pushes him lightly, smiling. The knight turns from her in a daze, and walks back to the castle.

 Though Ashara will never find out his name, Ser Maron is mesmerized by the memory of her dark eyes staring up at him, hair flaring out on either side of her, the sea writhing in the distance. He turns back, worrying he has not been chivalrous— _Why would you leave her to walk back alone, fool!_ — but the beach near Sunspear is dark and pristine, and no one looks to have ever been there.

* * *

 Ashara is in the water by the time Maron looks back, staring up at the stars, hair tangling around her, purple silks clinging to her legs.

 Ashara floats on the waves, feeling the soft caress of water buffeting her up, protective, like a lover. This is madness, utter folly, recklessly dangerous and yet Ashara laughs up at the sky; she is not to be tamed.

 The Sword of the Morning twinkles down at her, a guardian of light, a beaming ancestor, and even though the sea could sweep her away, leaving nothing behind, Ashara feels safe. She reaches her hand up toward the sky, and pinches the star between her fingers, but it will not come down to earth with her, and Ashara splashes her arm back into the sea. She twists, soaking herself in seawater, and swims back to the shore.

* * *

 The journey to King’s Landing is arduous, the air misting and humid. They go by ship, no one interested in that slow climb of the Marches, and the sea provides a view Ashara and Elia enjoy. They pass through the severed end of the Broken Arm, and Doran speaks of the history of the break between Westeros and the great landmass to the east, waving his arm over the sapphire Dornish sea. Elia listens, resting against the side of the ship, and Oberyn exhales, wraps his shameless arm around Ashara’s waist, and whispers to her of the people he has met on his voyages east.

 “I considered growing a beard and dying it in Pentos,” Oberyn drawls to Ashara, “but then I figured my time was better spent acquainting myself with that ardent wench, the Lyseni love goddess.” Louder, Oberyn declares, “I supposed Doran found his own time better spent worshipping at a certain door in Norvos.”

 Doran glances over at the pair, and then back to the sea, and calmer Elia, whose presence Ashara knows is a blessing from all the Seven for Doran on this trip.

 The Sea of Dorne seems infinite, and the misty, magical sprouts of the Rainwood are a welcome sight when they finally appear on the horizon. The ship passes round Cape Wrath—“Was it named for Aerys?” Oberyn ponders, and even Doran snorts, though he tries to pass it off as a messy cough—and avoids Shipbreaker Bay. As they pass through the Narrow Sea and wind into Blackwater Bay, Ashara almost wishes they could continue upward, to that frigid Northern landmass, just to see what it is like. From the Summer Sea to the Shivering Sea, Ashara would like to see it all, even if only for one frosty, freezing second.

 King’s Landing finally, blessedly, rises before them, golden towers rising to the sun like shimmering spears, and Ashara thinks mayhaps these Dornish outsiders will not feel so far from home after all. Ashara whisks Elia away from Doran’s reminders to Oberyn to not antagonize the Targaryens—“especially after that Duskendale fiasco!”—and the two peer up at the city, which from afar looks like a mass of molten gold, shimmering like flames in the heat.

 “Three years since we’ve all seen each other,” Elia muses, “how much has changed.” 

* * *

 The Martells arrive for the welcome feast in a blaze of orange and red, and Ashara is the only lavender star among fiery suns. Arthur already wields Dawn, has for two years, and as Ashara’s purple satins rustle around her feet, she feels famed, basking in the sweet glow of connection: the sister to the Sword of the Morning. Ashara trails behind Elia, searching for Arthur, who seems absent.

 The Dornish envoy is presented to the Targaryens, a family unreal. Silver heads and purple eyes crowd the dais, and the Martells sweep into bows and curtseys. Elia is a vision, glossy hair curling, skirts sweeping the stone floors as she bends into the lowest curtsey Ashara has ever seen. As she watches from behind, close to the other lords bannermen and their escorts, Ashara thinks how utterly queenly Elia Martell can be, and wonders what it would be like to have her rule Dorne. Ashara turns again to look for Arthur, and hopes he sees Elia like this, the finest person she knows.

 The feast begins, and Elia beckons Ashara to a seat next to her and Oberyn, at a table to the side of the dais.

 “Gods above, don’t leave me!” Elia laughingly chastises, and the three eat this northern food Ashara thinks bland.

 The noise in the hall is deafening, and the people varied. Sparkling lions from Casterly Rock swarm the hall, rowdy Storm Lords, roses from Highgarden.

 “Stop glaring at the Tyrells, brother, or they may well prick you.”

 “I am simply continuing a long-held tradition, Elia. Making our ancestors proud.”

 Ashara eats more of her food, not spiced in the styles she is used to, and leans into Elia’s whispers.

 “Have you not seen your brother?”

 “He’s disappeared!" Ashara laughs, "Maybe he’s helping our Crown Prince tune his insufferable harp."

 “Men here are fine,” Oberyn interrupts, candlelight shimmering on his face, his eyes glimmering like so many rich opals.

 “Quite so. Mayhaps this is my night to seduce the dragon,” Ashara responds and pops a grape into her mouth, raising her eyebrows at the two Martells next to her.

 “Yes," Oberyn ponders as he glances over at the King, "Aerys does have a certain attractiveness to him." Ashara glances at the king, at his scraggly beard and too-long nails.

 “Nay, Oberyn, I leave only the best for you. I was speaking of the prince.” Ashara knows the words are treasonous, and her heart beats faster, but their words are low, and they are young, and nothing can hurt them this night.

 “Aye, Rhaegar, the silver steed,” Oberyn hums, looking at the prince. The dragonknight is quiet, watching the activity in front of him, an ivory statue, a solid ghost. “He has all the carnal passion of Baelor the Blessed,” Oberyn lowers his head nearer to Ashara and Elia. “Perhaps wedding brother to sister for centuries has limpened their cocks.”

 Ashara hoots out her laughter, and Elia’s mouth twists as she raises her goblet to hide her smile.

 Ashara slaps Oberyn’s hand and looks again toward the dais, and the Targaryens. Rhaegar Targaryen is looking at them, and Ashara averts her eyes, feeling a stabbing worry in her heart.

 The feast eventually quiets, and Aerys calls for attention, raising a gnarled hand.

 “I am so pleased to welcome our Dornish lords and ruling Lady,” Aerys announces, his voice a tin-like, scraping vibration, “but pleased too to announce a new member of our royal protectors, the fine band of the Kingsguard.”

 “A fine band of celibates, more like,” Oberyn whispers as Aerys speaks of the reputation and distinction of the white cloaks, “these northern lords, pissing themselves over their honor.”

 Elia turns to Oberyn to hush him, lest Aerys see his impudence, but Ashara sees that pale hair, that milky blade, that _brother_ of hers, finally walking to the dais, kneeling before Rhaegar, and this feels like an ending.

 Frozen beside Ashara, like Northern ice, Elia’s eyes are glazed, and she is late to join the clapping for the newest sworn brother of the Kingsguard.

 Arthur stands, and looks around the room, nodding to the lords and smiling at the ladies, and stops when his eyes meet Elia’s.

  _Elia Dayne of Starfall_ , his letters had promised, and the words are a burning blur in Elia’s mind as she looks at that pristine white cloak, that shroud of ice. Ice has burned away his promises, and ice has replaced her hopes. A white cloak his future, a white cloak her grave.

  _Lies, Ser Arthur,_ her brain spits, malice on her tongue and pain in her throat, _lies_. 


	5. Chapter 5

Red stained darkness settles over King’s Landing, and steam rises from the ground, hell’s smoky fingers misting towards the stars. Night descends on the city, and gloom seeps into Elia Martell’s confused, writhing mind.

 When Elia turned ten, a year before the wildfire of Ashara Dayne turned up at Sunspear and lit up her life, she had dragged her cousin Cassiya to a fortune-teller, some maegi from the east, for a glimpse into the beautiful, elusive future she so longed to grasp. It had been a lonely time, with Oberyn acting the squire at Sandstone and Doran so much older and prone to solemnity.

 The tent stood in the sandy outskirts of the shadow town, glowing from the inside, lit up pink and red. Golden foil littered the ground in place of rushes, looking like the sun’s fallen children. The maegi had taken Elia’s hands, rubbed her palms, the pads of her fingertips circling Elia’s knuckles, and then moved to her face, fingers raining over her cheeks like tears. How badly Elia had wanted the world. She had hoped to hear the woman speak of adventures, of knowledge, of a love that would consume the earth, of longing that would burn like the sun. The woman had put her hand to Elia’s cheek and stared, as if in conciliation.

 “Sweet child,” she had breathed, wisps of cinnamon and smoke, “how you will rise! All the way to the sky, on wings!” The woman laughed, and Elia followed her example. “But be diligent, girl, for wings do not last forever. Watch lest you should fall.” The woman paused, and the tent was silent save for the listless chirping of the bugs outside, and Cassiya sucking her teeth.

 "Love will come, but nothing lasts forever.” For an instant, the woman had looked so sad, so sad, but then she smiled, charged Elia several coppers, and led them out the flap of the tent. Elia and Cassiya were swallowed by the night, the tent’s warm glow extinguished.

 Cassiya had laughed. “Go on, cousin. Fly!” She waved her fingers in front of Elia’s face and pitched her voice deep and frightening, “Rising to the sky on wings! Elia Martell, the dragon of Dorne!” And the two little girls ran through the sands to the castle, hollering in the quiet, Elia hiding a heavy heart.

 

 Elia looks down at the old, crumpled letters from Arthur, three year’s worth, worn with rereadings, with the excitement of first love. She thinks of Cassiya, with her energy and laughter, married far away in Oldtown, and wonders if she is happy. _Did love come for you, Cassiya? Is it lasting forever?_

In Elia’s mind, Cassiya’s face melts into Mellario’s, with her feisty nature and husky voice, her strongly-felt moods. Elia is soon to be an aunt, and barks out a laugh when she wonders what Doran would do if the child had more of Oberyn’s nature than his own.

 And then she thinks of him. Ser Arthur bending the knee to Prince Rhaegar, and standing up cloaked in white. Ser Arthur standing near Aerys, guarding his crown and weakening sanity.

 But is that the Arthur she knows?

 She thinks of Arthur as she last knew him, thankful and funny, encouraging and interested. Arthur kissing her hands when they were six-and-ten, her face flushing and his eyes bold. Arthur handing her his sword in the Water Gardens and holding her hand in his own to show her the strokes. Arthur telling her she has promise with a sword, and would she like to parry with him, for fun? Arthur telling her of Starfall, the crashing waves and that Palestone Sword, jutting up towards the sky. How he almost fell of its edge at seven, and how he has avoided it ever since.

  _I’ve never told anyone that!_ He had mused, after he had told her. _Ashara just thinks I find it boring. Far from it! Seven year old me, clinging to the edge of a cliff with chubby arms is not something I would describe as boring._ Arthur had laughed then, a sound rich but still boyish. He smiled at her, and Elia, three years later, remembers how much she had liked his ease.

_I thought that was the beginning of life, the starting of contentment, but that was contentment itself, and life started long ago._

Elia looks down at the letters in her hands, so many of them.

 The first had arrived a week after Arthur had returned to Starfall, after that visit when he was sixteen.

  _Dearest Princess Elia_ it began, and Elia remembers the surge of happiness she had felt reading it, looking at her name written in his hand, knowing that he had been thinking of _her_ , had wanted to write to _her._

  _I am now arrived back at Starfall, which is a bit lonely without you and Ashara and Oberyn. I wanted to tell you, though, I climbed the Palestone Sword! It was actually very nice, and it has only taken me nine years! If you ever come to Starfall, and I do hope you will, we can go together. It’s so very high, you feel like you can see until the end of the world._

Elia had never made it to Starfall. She did not know what the end of the world looked like.

 Arthur Dayne was gone to her now, lost in a sea of white-armored duty, but she was thankful for the memory of him, Arthur as a young boy. No other would have ever dared suggest she climb the Palestone Sword, all those steps, too much for delicate, small-boned Elia Martell. No other but Arthur.

 They had been the library, looking at a map of the world when they had first kissed. Elia’s eyes had been closed, and she was spinning her index finger in circles above the map. Finally, she touched her finger to the parchment. Opening her eyes, Elia snorted.

 “I’m to live in Asshai. Not quite sure I’ll fit in. Your turn.”

 Arthur had closed his eyes and smiled, swirling his fingers around the map. He touched the parchment.

 “Apparently I’ll be joining you in Asshai, then.” Arthur sighed.

 “You looked!” Elia had said, pretending to be affronted. “Cheater!”

 “Never! Am I to be rebuked for following my princess?”

 “How _terribly_ gallant of you Dayne. I’m _so_ pleased to have you as my protector. Though I suppose we’ll have to avoid heights altogether.”

 “I told you that in confidence!”

 The two had stared at each other, before bursting into laughter. Arthur’s laughter had trailed off, and Elia had flushed, and looked down at her hands. When she looked up at him again, he had not moved, still only looking at her, softly.

 And he had kissed her, the lightest brush of his lips against hers. He moved away from her, looking down at his hands, until Elia nervously put her hand on his shoulder, and kissed him back, moving her hands into his pale blonde hair.

 

_The beginning of happiness, the starting of contentment._

Two nights before Arthur was to leave for Starfall, Elia came to his chambers, carrying two oranges.

 “Elia!” Arthur had looked startled when she had appeared at his door. “I’m sorry, Princess, I had not known you were coming,” Arthur had rushed to put his jerkin on again over his tunic.

 “Yes, well, I didn’t tell you.” Elia had smiled and shined with her faked confidence, but worried that she was interrupting him, that he didn’t want her there. “Orange?”

 Arthur had gaped at her, and she felt all her hastily sewn bravado begin to loosen.

 “I’m sorry, Ser, I should leave,” Elia stumbled over her words, face reddening.

 “No!” Arthur had yelped, and then calmed. “No, please stay. And yes, yes to the orange.”

 They had sat on his bed, fingers sticky with the orange juice, and this time, Elia had kissed him. She had leaned over him on the bed, pushing his silver jerkin off with her sticky hands, tasting the blood orange on his lips. Arthur had run his hands up her waist, and Elia, daring, had pushed her skirts up to her knees. Arthur had touched her legs gently, looking up at her, and she had kissed him again, and again, and again. She had smiled into his mouth, as he ran his hands over her thighs, her waist, her back. They had kissed until her lips were red and swollen, his straight hair disheveled, until the stars faded and the sun began its climb into the sky.

 But they had talked too, and Elia remembered their words with even more fondness than the kisses. She had whispered secrets against his ear. She told him of the time she stole Oberyn’s horse and rode through the dry hot sands just to prove she could. He told her of his talks with his brother, his worries for Ashara, all thoughts spoken into her hair. She breathed the names of all the places she wanted to visit against his mouth, and he spoke of how much he wanted the honor of being the Sword of the Morning, but how he sometimes didn’t know whether it was truly his wish, or his family’s. And when dawn had awoken, Elia had admitted how worthless she sometimes felt, how badly words like _frail_ and _delicate_ stung, how she hated being reduced to illness, to a girl with too-narrow hips. Arthur had looked at her, and squirmed down the bed, to kiss her hipbones covered by her skirts, and when he looked up at her, Elia had felt like crying.

“I guess you are what you make yourself,” he had told her, “And you have never made yourself weak.”

 For minutes, Elia feels sixteen again, and in Dorne, but she is nineteen in King’s Landing and those are only memories, and gone now.

 She no longer has Arthur Dayne, but she would keep Arthur, her Arthur, locked inside her, a memory to be taken out carefully, and maybe not so often. But even as Elia promises herself to _let him go_ , she knows she won’t be able to. How do you make yourself forget the person who gave you your strength again?

 In her mind, Elia sees Arthur as he had been when he was hers, colorful and laughing, a face full of smiles.

 

_I think of you all the time, and it will never run out. I’ll be thinking of you always, haunted by you always._


	6. Chapter 6

When Ashara sweeps into the White Sword Tower, a blurry vision of swirling colors—reds, purples, golds—the sight is so welcome amongst the blinding white Arthur could cry out in joy. They haven’t seen each other for three weeks, except in passing. Arthur always solemn in white, Ashara laughing at Elia’s side. She has not looked at him since arriving here. They have not seen each other in three years.

 The Tower is empty, save for the Daynes, and Arthur knows Ashara should not be here, that Ser Gerold would not be pleased for an outsider to be circling the Round Room, running her hands over plush white tapestries, tapping her fingers over the weirwood table.

 “Not quite the grand room I expected for the grand members of the Kingsguard” Ashara breathes out the words, keeping her voice light, conversational, but Arthur can sense the anger underneath, the storm brewing behind those purple eyes, so like his own.

 “Our duty is enough,” Arthur responds, and already the words seem almost programmed, so lifeless.

 Ashara looks at him with disgust. The tower is so cold, and so white, and Ashara flickers like an angry flame.

 “Duty,” she breathes, a heated spark. “What a cold mistress.” Ashara laughs then, and the sound is a frost on his heart, an icicle of hate. “Though I suppose you are well suited. Cold hearts match well.”

 Arthur looks at Ashara, who in her fury seems a stranger. He did not think she had it in her to be cruel.

 This white cloak, a symbol of such promise, has taken all from him. He cannot let it take Ashara away too. But his own anger is bubbling, making him feel hot. _It is not for you to judge me, sister._ Arthur knows of Ashara’s heedlessness, how she flits from man to man, not caring for any whispers that may follow, thinking her beauty will save her. _At least I have signed myself to nobility, to honor. The only whispers following me will be of my prowess, and even then they will be shouts._ This he vows.

 Ashara walks to the head of the table, and runs her palm over the top of the white wooden chair reserved for the Lord Commander. He thinks for a moment she means to sit in it, but even Ashara is not that foolhardy. Instead she stands directly behind the chair, and she looks fierce, not someone to be trifled with.

 “So, dear brother,” her smile is predatory, one that would better belong on a wolf. “Why did you choose _this_?” She waves her hand lazily, at the white walls and whiter tapestries. “Why did you choose _that_?” She nods at his cloak, and the movement is no longer lazy, but harsh, direct.

 “Ashara…”Arthur’s voice sounds weary, even to himself. “What greater duty, what greater honor, is there than to serve and protect one’s leader? Don’t you see how proud mother and father will be? This is something that raises our own position!”

 Ashara scoffs, a raspy, guttural sound. “I never took you for such, Arthur, but your words are weak. Honor? How can you speak of honor? Where was your honor when you wrote Elia letter after letter, made promise after promise? Where was your honor then, when this was always to be your ending?” Ashara’s words are daggers, and Arthur feels like it is she who wields Dawn now, attacking him. His anger bubbles and brews, spits and sparks, until it reaches the surface.

 “You know _nothing_ ,” Arthur spits, and surprises himself at how harsh his own words sound, when he always thought himself the calm to Ashara’s wildness, the reason to her impulsivity. “How can you, when you run around so carelessly, not thinking what people will say of you? You are lucky sister, that the whispers are just rumors now. What will you do when that changes?”

 “How _dare_ you?” Ashara exclaims, the sound shrill.

 “ _No_ , Ashara. Not this time. Not when I have given up _everything_.” Arthur wants to cry, absurdly, and chastises himself. _You cannot weep, you fool! You are a knight of the Kingsguard._ It is laughable.

 “ _You_ have given up everything? Oh, brother,” the look Ashara gives him is again of loathing. “You have _taken_ everything. From Elia. Gods above, even from _yourself_!” Ashara laughs then, a sound even shriller than her anger.

 Arthur has never seen Ashara look so crazed, almost like some goddess of destruction, hair whipping, silks whirling in a frenzy.

  _Enough_.

 “Don’t act as if you know me, Ashara!” Arthur spits. “Don’t you _dare_ say I didn’t love her enough. She was all I ever hoped for. And instead I have _this_.” He threw his white cloak on the table, where it forms a white wall between them. “This white cloak of ice, when I wanted the sun, when I wanted fire. And instead I am left here to frost, and she will wed another, and it will burn me. As you do, Ashara, to so _many_ in your path. All those who think you love them, only for you to leave when the sun rises."

Arthur raises his hands up to face her, shaking his head. "Neither of us is perfect, sister. We both have our faults. So don’t act as if you understand why I did this.”

 “And why did you?” She is mocking, and it infuriates him.

 “You live in a fantasy, sister.” Arthur shakes his head, and he doesn’t know whether he aims to hurt or help. “Sometimes, you are so removed from reality… We have nothing to offer them.” The words trail upward, expanding around the room. _Nothing_.

 “Elia and I… it was never going to be. Ashara,” Arthur breathes, “we both knew it.”

 He sister is silent, looking at him, and he can almost see her deflate, see her fury leave her in wisps.

 “Elia Martell and Arthur Dayne? _Dayne_ ,” Arthur repeats, drumming the name into their heads. “We’re their _bannermen_ , the match wouldn’t have been powerful enough.”

 “But—" Ashara interrupts.

 “There are none. No _buts_. The match would _never_ have been powerful enough, and the ruling lady might even have taken it as an insult. Elia is never going to marry anyone from Dorne.”

 Arthur stills, and he realizes it is the first time he’s ever said the words out loud. Never, not when he was ten-and-six and the worries first began pricking at him, not when he was ten-and-eight and writing hopefully of marriage, not even when he made the choice to join the Kingsguard, _never_ had he said the words aloud. “At least this way I bring honor to our family. I hope to make her proud. I have nothing else to offer her.”

 Ashara looks at him for a long while, and all her burning fury has been extinguished. She opens her mouth once, to say something, but then closes it. She nods at him, a short little jerk of her head, and then sweeps out of the Tower. Arthur remains standing by the table, looking at his cloak lying limply on the table. He doesn’t hear his sister reenter, but feels her hand take his, and is thankful for the squeeze she gives it. He turns around, and she is gone.

 

* * *

 People say the Kingsguard is a solem lot, but these people have never known Oswell’s sarcastic japes, Lewyn’s secret visits to his paramour, Barristan’s heroic tales.  Arthur enjoys them. He enjoys sparring with them in the practice yard, enjoys the rare game of _cyvasse_ he and Lewyn play. He even enjoys the meetings in the Round Room, eager to hear what these famed fighters have to say.

 He comes to know Rhaegar Targaryen, the sad dragon prince, and Arthur likes him. He likes Rhaegar’s quiet intensity, feels it melds well with his own quiet sense of duty and honor. He likes Rhaegar’s dedication, and tolerates his sad song playing.

 The life he is building is almost full, and it helps to lessen the sting whenever Dorne’s princess swirls past him, a moving whirl of color, while Arthur stands, a solid statue of white.

 Arthur is often assigned to protect Rhaegar, and he grows close to the prince this way. They are close in age, two years apart, and it is better to stand at Rhaegar’s side and smile than stiffen by Aerys’s and fear.

 It is one such day among many, wandering with Rhaegar around the red keep, circling the gardens, dipping into the usually empty godswood, that Arthur sees Elia.

 That morning, Arthur finds Rhaegar waiting by the entrance to the Maidenvault, and raises an eyebrow.

 “Planning a change in living situation, your grace?”

 “Alas, Arthur, no,” Rhaegar laughs, “merely waiting for a Dornish princess.”

 Arthur’s throat feels tight. He hasn’t spoken to Elia in a month, seen her only in passing, and though things are better now with Ashara, he does not expect her to be singing his praises in front of Elia. For a moment, Arthur thinks of running to Lewyn to have him guard Rhaegar and Elia, but it is not his place, and the Kingsguard do not run.

 Elia walks down the bridge separating Maegor’s Holdfast—where the Martells have been placed— from the rest of the Red Keep and comes to curtsy in front of Rhaegar, who takes her hand. She looks at Arthur, gives him a brief, civil smile, and wraps her arm around Rhaegar’s. Even in profile, Arthur can see her flush.

 “Princess, I fear I have been remiss of late, not having properly spoken to you…” Rhaegar bends his head down to Elia’s, speaking to her, and Arthur trails behind, the invisible white cloak. His head feels fuzzy, especially when he looks at the two in front of him, Elia so beautiful with her glossy hair and red and orange silks, and Rhaegar tall and silver beside her.

  _It is nothing, Arthur_ , he thinks to himself, _merely courtesy. He must seek her out, after all. It is only proper, after she made such a long trip to get here._

_A long trip to see you. What a disappointment you must have been._

 The trio stop in the gardens, and Rhaegar leads Elia to a delicate metal table. Arthur stands some ways off, trying not to look, trying not to hear.

 But he does look, and he does hear. He sees Elia’s beautiful smile and _how is it possible that she’s grown even lovelier?_ He hears her soft laughter, sees the kind sparkle of her eyes.

 Rhaegar laughs appreciatively beside her, and for an instant Arthur feels a possessiveness that unnerves him. _I should be laughing with her, not him. I should be the recipient of those smiles. Not him._ The surge of angry jealous he feels towards Rhaegar is uncomfortable, especially when the man is becoming a friend.

 And suddenly, they are alone.

 “Arthur, I’m going to go to the kitchens—I should have had something prepared. Stay with Elia, if you will.”

 “I—" Arthur stutters. Isn’t he meant to be Rhaegar’s shadow? Wouldn’t letting him leave be betraying his vows? “Your grace…”

 “It is my wish you would stay here, Arthur, with the Princess Elia.” And Arthur is stuck.

 Rhaegar walks out of the gardens, and Elia and Arthur are silent, surrounded by happily chirping birds. Arthur tries to stare straight ahead, in the accustomed manner of his brotherhood, but his eyes flick back to Elia’s sitting figure. She drums her fingertips against the metal, staring down at the table, quiet.

 He wants to speak, to explain to her, but _how_? All those letters seem not only silly now, but cruel. _Why did you entertain hopes? Both hers and yours?_ But that had been before, when Arthur had thought he could somehow work it out, that he and Elia could somehow make it.

 “Elia.” He begins before he is ready, just to say her name. She does not jerk to face him, but instead calmly lifts her eyes to meet his, and this calmness is even worse than Ashara’s burning fury. _Scream at me,_ Arthur wants to plead. _Make me feel like I matter! Did I mean so very little to you?_

 But Elia is staring at him, waiting. He cannot lie to those eyes, so he continues.

 “I am not worthy of you Eli—" he pauses, thinking of those years ago when they met. Three years that could be three centuries. “You know, when I first saw you, when I first rode up to Sunspear, you made me laugh, because I could see your pinching your brother to keep him quiet with some jape or remark. I thought about how I wanted to be around someone so spirited.”

 Elia is silent still, looking at him, and Arthur wishes he had words enough to make her understand how much she had meant to him during those weeks at Sunspear, how much her memory had meant to him during the years that passed afterward, how much her letters had made him laugh and think, smile and ponder.

 “When I gave you the crown of roses, it felt like something that made sense. You looked so much like a sun that day, in your pinks and reds. A princess should have a crown, a sun her rays. It is still one of my prouder days,” Arthur laughs, thinking of how damnably pleased with himself he had been that day, after he had unhorsed the last man, securing himself as victor. How swollen his head had gotten, before his cocky thoughts of victory were replaced with warmth, with wanting to crown the beautiful girl on the dais, wanting to see her smile.

 “Kissing you felt right,” Arthur says, more quietly now, and more quickly, lest Rhaegar should come back and interrupt this reverie. “It felt like I was being warmed by the sun. It was so _nice_ , Elia.” He isn’t looking at Elia in front of him anymore, instead gazing down at the ground, eyes glazed, looking at the Elia in his memory, nervous but smiling, in that polished wooden library in Sunspear.

 “And your letters! How I waited so desperately for them to arrive. The day I finally climbed the Palestone Sword, I brought the parchment with me, so I could write of my victory up there, could brag about how I had finally climbed that damned tower after sixteen years.” He smiles again, and Elia lets out a small breath of laughter.

 “I truly wanted all I said in those letters, Elia. I let myself believe that we could be together, married.” The word sounds strange.

 “But I was never going to be enough for that. You were meant for more than me, than a Dayne. You were meant for one of the great houses.”

 Elia frowns, a sad expression, and she looks almost wistful.

 “I only wanted to be worthy of you… so I took this.” Arthur fingers the cloak he wears, and laughs, because it makes no sense. “I took the only oath that could truly keep us apart forever, for _you_.”

 “I never wanted you to have to _do_ something for me, Arthur,” Elia says softly, and the sound of her speaking to him is glorious, even if the words are not.

 “I wanted to make you proud,” he says, knowing the sentiment was irrational.

 “I know,” Elia responds, and her smile is sad.

 They are quiet when Rhaegar returns, smiling and carrying a basket of food. They are quiet, but everything has changed.

 

* * *

The days pass, but are better, peaceful, because Ashara laughs with him now, and Elia gives him soft smiles whenever they pass. He is almost happy.

 A week after their talk in the garden, the Red Keep throws a feast, and it reminds him of the feast on the day he received his cloak. The throne room sparkles, candles illuminating the dragon’s heads, making it seem as though they could roar to life at any second. Arthur stands to the side of the dais, Dawn strapped against his back, watching the mirth around him. Ashara is whirling in the middle of a mass of dancers, her hips swaying and her arms raised. Elia is sitting on a dais to the side of that of the Targaryens, laughing with Oberyn. She catches his eye, and smiles at him, and it makes Arthur feel warm, makes him glad to know he can still have some happiness amongst all this white.

 Aerys stands, his beard a shade too long, his hair slightly unkempt, and raises a hand, pausing the music and the dancers.

 “It has been a long-held tradition for the Targaryens to wed brother to wife, to keep our dragonblood strong and undiluted.”

 To his side, Arthur can see Rhaegar grow red, making his silver hair look even paler.

 “But alas!” Aerys crys, “My sweet wife has not given me a daughter!”

 Rhaella looks down at her hands, a smile plastered on her face.

 “But we must make due with what has been given us, so I hereby announce my son Rhaegar’s marriage to Princess Elia of Dorne, and what a happy one I expect it shall be.”

The hall erupts in raucous applause, but all Arthur can see are Oberyn’s clutched fists, Ashara’s frozen figure and Elia, Elia’s shocked and frightened face, Elia above all.

 His cloak is strangling him. It was too good to last.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very jam packed for the next few months, so updates will be coming slowly, but I will keep this going!


	7. Chapter 7

“Congratulations,” Arthur claps Rhaegar on the back, after the announcement feast has dwindled down, after Rhaegar and Elia shared a perfunctory dance, Ashara a still figure in the background.

Rhaegar is preparing to leave the hall, and in the candlelight, the looming iron chair casts jagged shadows on the wall, making him look almost ominous, as though Arthur doesn’t know him at all. Rhaegar nods.

“Yes. I am lucky,” Rhaegar murmurs. “Though,” and he glances to the throne which will be his one day. “I fear this was not the kindest way to tell her. I thought her mother would have spoken of it.”

Arthur watches Barristan follow after Rhaella, sees Lewyn trail after Aerys, and wishes he were with them, for even the Queen’s sad eyes and Aerys’ troubled ramblings would be preferable to this, preferable to watching Rhaegar smooth his tunic and fold his napkin, preferable to the smile Rhaegar gives him, preferable to the rush of disloyal hatred he feels for this man he names a friend.

The preparations for the wedding put the entire keep in an uproar, and a process which Arthur thought would take months is accomplished in a frighteningly short time. The day of the wedding dawns bright and clear, crowds pulsing along the path to the Sept. Walking through the streets, overheated in his amour and cloak, Arthur cannot see Elia, and is thankful. He measures his steps, a steady one-two that propels him forward. Finally, the procession reaches the Sept, a great looming beast. Arthur waits for the pounding of his heart to intensify, waits for a perspiration to coat his skin, but instead he feels numb, blessed emptiness. The sky is blue and beautiful.

* * *

Elia is sinking, feels as though she is being swept away in some foreign, tumultuous sea. For a moment, the whole Sept is silent, waiting, and she becomes just another woman in a lineage of others identical to her—bought and sold, traded and bartered. The Sept is silent, and she can hear nothing but her breathing, short, sharp pants. The silence is too loud. Her ears are singing. Say something.

“I do,” she says, and her eyes flit so quickly to Arthur, who is looking at her.

* * *

 The day stretches on, too long, too much for an old, married woman. Too much to have to feign grace when Aerys gropes her in front of the people who are now her subjects. Too much to have to face the pity in Oberyn’s eyes, and the mask Ashara wears. She does not look at Arthur.

The feast is long and the room sweltering, the food still damnably bland. Elia can smell the saccharine sweetness of the wine caskets, and the cloying, sugary air makes her feel ill. When the men, rowdy and drunk, begin calling for the bedding, making lewd gestures with their hands, Elia is surprised to feel something like relief. Anything to leave this room. She is pushed out of the hall, her beautiful dress ripped by greedy hands, pearls falling from the seams. Rhaegar is at the other end of the hall, surrounding by breathy feminine laughs, and soft, deferential hands. Elia is pawed, and grabbed. She feels like a slab of meat. And then, grabbed again, but this time by determined hands, lifting her away from the intoxicated crowd. Elia stares up at Arthur, this man who has saved her and hurt her, and she winds her hands around his neck, pretending it for balance.

Arthur carries Elia away from the hall, and to the chamber she will share with Rhaegar, as is his duty. For the briefest of moments they are alone, and the world is quiet. Elia grips the back of his neck, stronger than he’s ever felt her to be, and kisses him, pressing him to her. He can feel her teeth.  
“It should have been you,” and she turns her face from his and kneels on the bed, waiting for Rhaegar, waiting for his friend.  
He steps away as the door opens, Rhaegar laughing quietly, pushed in by the women of the Keep. Arthur sees Elia, a dark figure on the white bed, and strides from the room, surprisingly steady. The door closes behind him.

Arthur stands outside as is expected, with the rowdy men whose jests are never-ending. They have been waiting for a time, when the crowd hears a masculine groan from inside the chambers. The crowd roars, and laughs, and Arthur feels his head ringing. But it is the feminine breath, the lightest gasp that sends him fleeing, away from the men calling his name in question, away from that chamber of regret, away from the only woman he ever wanted, and was never able to have. Arthur is not sure whether he is running from sorrow or running into it, until he comes into an empty courtyard, puts his hand on the sandy stone in front of him and breathes, breathes, and retches. In a moment of madness, he wipes his mouth with his Kingsguard cloak, white as sorrow, white as regret.

Elia lays in bed with Rhaegar over her, and she hears the riotous noises from outside the room grow louder at Rhaegar’s sound, and she flushes and gasps as Rhaegar moves over her again.  
“Dayne?” A man’s voice questions, sounding both amused and confused, and Elia feels a spark of rage—how could he? How could he choose the Kingsguard? Why? Why was I not enough? Elia has always felt not enough, but she vows she will be enough for Rhaegar Targaryen, this handsome silver prince above her. Sealing that vow, and acting on disappointment and hurt, Elia moans, a sound so wanton and breathless that it surprises her, and she feels embarrassment rising at the sounds coming from outside. Rhaegar’s eyes snap open and he pushes the hair from her sweaty forehead, an action more tender than she expected, and she feels ashamed for thinking of another when she should be thinking of her husband. But it is the call from outside—“Dayne!” a man shouts laughingly—that doubles her shame. Why hurt him like this?

Because he hurt you, the bitter, vicious side of her answers. Because you were not good enough.

And Elia, so tired, so pained by never being enough, reaches up for Rhaegar’s silky hair and presses her lips to his, grasps his back, and flips him over.

She will be good enough for Rhaegar Targaryen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three years later...


End file.
